Spy Penguins Series, Book 1 Read online

  A long line of visitors—led by Doreen—snaked up the path to the porch, where Jackson’s mom was greeting them, wide-eyed and looking slightly shocked. Jackson tried not to laugh. “By the way, did you bring your ice cycle?” he whispered to Quigley.

  “Sure. I left it in the bushes down the street so your mom wouldn’t see it.”

  “Cool! I’ll get mine and meet you out front in one minute.” Jackson slipped around to the garage, grabbed his ice cycle, then sneaked back through the trees at the side of his house.

  Quigley was waiting for him on the sidewalk. “Whoa,” Jackson gasped, doing a double take at his buddy’s wheels. “Is that a Slide-and-Ride? When did you get it?”

  “Nah, it’s my old Ice Hopper,” Quigley said, “with a few new modifications. Sunny’s been working on it with me. Check out the steel snow ice spikes and the sixty-nine frost gears, plus gull-poop protector screens and quadruple snowball blasters.”

  “In case we meet enemy agents?” Jackson asked.

  “Or Hoff Rockface!” Quigley grinned.

  “Neat!” Jackson had swung onto his saddle, ready to ride off, when he heard something rustling behind them. “Who’s there?” he spun around. “What? No!” Jackson groaned as he spotted the egg rolling down the sidewalk toward them. “It must have escaped when Mom opened the door.”

  Quigley pushed his glasses up his nose. “What are we going to do with it?”

  “If we take it back, Mom might catch us,” Jackson said. “But if we take it with us, we might lose it.”

  In the distance they heard Big Bong, the Rookeryville Frost Clock, chime 7 P.M. Jackson had no idea what time expensive restaurants owned by super-villains usually opened, but he reckoned it would probably be as soon as it was dark. And that was kind of about now. He shuddered. The stolen fish could be getting sliced and diced at this very moment. “Let’s go,” Jackson said, reaching down and scooping up the egg and stuffing it into his backpack. “Maybe you’re not planning to be a stay-at-home parent and part-time builder like Dad,” he said to the egg. “Maybe you’re planning to be a secret agent like us.” The egg wriggled happily. “Just don’t do anything silly, like—um—hatch,” Jackson whispered. “That would be sooo embarrassing. And Mom would freak.”

  Quigley giggled. “Yeah, and the next room your dad would build would be a jail for us!”

  13

  Twelve minutes later Secret Agents 00Zero and Q (plus soon-to-be junior secret agent the egg) were downtown, crossing the parking lot toward Coldfinger’s restaurant.

  “I’m glad it’s snowing again,” Jackson whispered, hiding his ice cycle behind a dumpster. “It’ll cover our tracks if Mom tries to find us.”

  Quigley was staring up at the roof of the restaurant. “That great white looks even creepier at night.”

  Lit up with large, blood-red lights, the moving shark loomed out of the night sky like a toothy rocket.

  “Wonder why the restaurant is called the Shark’s Pit?” Jackson said.

  Quigley shivered. “Not sure we want to find out.”

  They stopped talking as they got closer to the restaurant, moving silently between the parked snowmobiles and over to the refrigerated truck, which was in the same place that it had been earlier, backed up in front of the restaurant’s kitchen door.

  Jackson pointed up at the cab. The driver was inside, asleep. They moved along the side of the truck and peeped around the back. The kitchen door was open and they could see staff coming and going.

  “Think we could pass as waiters or chefs?” Jackson whispered. “That one isn’t much taller than us.”

  “I’ve got a better idea.” Quigley opened his backpack and pulled out two shiny sheets. “They’re just prototypes,” he explained. “I wasn’t planning on using them yet, but I think these could be my latest and greatest—”

  “What’s that smell?” Jackson interrupted, putting his flipper over his beak.

  “Fish poop,” Quigley said. “That’s what they’re made of. Here, put yours on.” He dangled one of the sheets in front of Jackson.

  “You want me to wear this?” Jackson held it up with one flipper. “Ugh, it’s sticky. It smells. And it looks like tinfoil.”

  “It’s a sardine suit.” Quigley beamed. “It uses the same scientific principles as sardines. See, sardines have these super-neat crystallized hexagonal scales that become light reflecting when they change angle, and—”

  “Um—Agent Q,” Jackson interrupted. “Why are we dressing up as sardines?” Jackson had a sudden panic that Quigley was hoping they could sneak into the restaurant disguised as a pair of enormous rare fish. Jackson’s Gadget Fail-o-Meter was maxing out on this one. He tried to think of a nice way to tell Quigley, but there wasn’t time. “Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t think us dressing up as giant sardines will fool anyone.”

  Quigley snorted. “This isn’t dress-up. These are invisibility suits.”

  “But I can see them,” Jackson said.

  “That’s because we’re standing outside in natural moonlight.” Quigley pointed to the sky. “But when you wear these suits under artificial light—indoor lights—they become invisible.”

  “Really?” Jackson frowned.

  “Yeah, you see, they’re made of sardine poop,” Quigley explained, “which I’ve discovered has the same properties as sardines’ scales, so when we wear them, the material shimmers and reflects the indoor lighting and we disappear.”

  “HUCK BEAKHOPPER?” They jumped as a loud voice suddenly shouted from inside the kitchen. “HUCK BEAKHOPPER, WHERE ARE YOU?” They shrank back into the shadow of the truck as the flappy penguin with the row of pens around her neck who they’d seen earlier came flapping out the kitchen door. “HUCK BEAKHOPPER?” she yelled again.

  The door of the refrigerated truck’s cab suddenly burst open. “I’m here!” And the driver appeared, straightening his overalls and flicking the sleep out of his eyes.

  “Huck!” the flappy penguin said. “I just wanted to remind you of the running order for tonight.” She flicked over a page on her clipboard. “The guests have begun arriving. We’re serving them flocktails in the bar right now. In half an hour, you need to bring in the ice sculptures, just before they sit down for dinner. That way the sculptures won’t melt. Then, once the guests are in their seats, Ms. Belle will do the big reveal.”

  Jackson’s eyes widened. The big reveal? Was that when they’d bring in the stolen fish?

  The flappy penguin glanced at her watch. “So, I’ll call on you in thirty minutes. Make sure you’re ready. Ms. Belle can’t bear anyone being late. I’ve arranged for a group of waiters to help you carry in the sculptures. Come with me now and I’ll introduce you.” She led the driver off into the restaurant.

  Jackson looked at the sardine suit again. Could it work? Would it work? Time was running out. They HAD to get inside. “Come on, Agent Q,” Jackson said, pulling on the suit. “Let’s do this!” He grimaced at the smell. “Next time, could you add deodorizers?”

  But Quigley had already put his hood up. “Ready?” he said, his voice muffled behind the fabric. “Prepare to disappear, 00Zero.”

  They shuffled into the kitchen, their suits making a loud shish-shish sound as they moved. Luckily, Jackson thought, the clanging and banging of the kitchen pots and pans probably drowns out the noise. Flippers crossed! He blinked under the bright lights. The place was enormous—about four times the size of Jackson’s kitchen at home, with at least a dozen chefs spread out along the workbenches, chopping, dicing, slicing, and stirring. Jackson tried to see what they were working on, but luckily none of the food looked like the missing fish.

  Jackson froze as a chef suddenly turned to carry a tray of buns to a serving hatch on the other side of the kitchen. But the chef didn’t notice him and Quigley. Of course he didn’t, Jackson reminded himself, because we’re invisible. He glanced at Quigley. Huh? Strangely, he could still see his buddy. Jackson wasn’t sure why that was—surely, if they were both inv
isible, he shouldn’t be able to see him. Jackson’s heart started to beat a little faster. Unless … But there was no time to query this point with Quigley because just at that moment a waiter dashed into the kitchen.

  “The boss is coming!” he hissed to the chefs. “She’s doing an inspection. Stand up straight. Don’t talk.”

  Jackson just had time to drag Quigley behind two dessert carts as a sudden jangling of heavy gold jewelry sounded down the corridor, a whiff of stinky perfume filled the air, and then Coldfinger swept into the room. No one moved. No one breathed. Even the pots seemed to stop bubbling as Coldfinger stalked around the workbenches, glaring at the chefs’ work. “Too thick!” she snapped, pointing to some sliced sea greens. “Start over!”

  “Too large!” she barked about a tray of krill buns. “Start over!”

  “Too flowery!” she bawled over a tray of frosted tomatoes cut into tiny rose shapes. She flipped the tray onto the floor. “Start over!”

  She carried on around the room, criticizing everything she saw, knocking over trays, upending mixing bowls, and yelling at her staff.

  Jackson held his breath as she got closer and closer to their carts. She won’t be able to see us, he told himself. We’re invisible. We’ve completely disappeared. She’s looking at the strawberry sea mousse on the carts, not at you. No way has she seen you …

  Coldfinger let out a sudden shriek. She raised one large, gold-covered flipper and pointed it straight at Jackson and Quigley. “Intruders!”

  “Uh—I don’t think we’re actually invisible,” Jackson muttered to Quigley, his heart beginning to thump in his chest.

  “Really?” His buddy cocked his head to one side. “That’s odd. Perhaps they don’t have the right lighting in here. Hey, let go!” Two burly chefs had gotten ahold of them and were yanking them out from behind the carts.

  “What is that disgusting smell?” Coldfinger sniffed the whiff of fish poop escaping from their suits.

  “We’re not the only smelly things in here,” Quigley said, covering his beak. “Your perfume is awful!”

  “Trick or treat!” Jackson interrupted, breaking the secret-agent rule of dealing with dangerous situations by staying silent. Instead he said the first thing that popped into his head. “Happy EARLY Halloween! We’re zombie sardines.” He wiggled his sardine-stinky flippers at Coldfinger. “Smell our rotting fish skin. OOOO! Zombieeees,” he added in what he hoped was a ghostly zombie-sardine sort of a voice.

  “Enough!” Coldfinger hissed. “Get them out of here before I feed them to my sharks!”

  “Sharks?” Quigley muttered. “Do you really have sharks?”

  “Hey, let go!” Jackson tried to wriggle out of the chef’s flippers as he dragged Jackson toward the kitchen door. Out of the corner of his eye, Jackson spotted something lying on the workbench. Something interesting … He just had time to grab it before the chef heaved him through the kitchen door and out, headfirst into a giant snowdrift.

  Seconds later, Quigley landed with a thump next to him.

  “Well, I’m glad to be out of there,” Quigley said. “I think I’m allergic to Coldfinger’s perf— Achoooo!”

  But Jackson didn’t look up. He was too busy peering at the thing he’d grabbed.

  “Look,” he breathed. “A menu!”

  14

  “This is it,” Jackson said, shaking off his hood so he could see better. “Evidence! If I could only turn the pages to look … sheesh! My flippers keep getting stuck to it.”

  “Want some help?” said a voice.

  Jackson glanced up. “Lily!”

  “Why are you wearing those weird sheets?” Lily leaned closer and grimaced. “You smell really bad.”

  “Sorry, but that information is classified,” Quigley said, standing up and trying to dust the snow off his suit. But it didn’t work. The snow was stuck fast.

  “What are you doing here?” Jackson asked Lily.

  She shrugged. “I wanted to see if your theory about the restaurant stealing the fish was right. And, well—” She looked at her feet. “I didn’t want to stay at home. Dad’s still not back. And Mom’s been on the phone all evening trying to find out when he will be released. So I snuck out— Hey, is that a menu?” Lily peered at the booklet in Jackson’s lap. “Can I see?” She crouched down next to him and unpeeled his sticky sardine flippers from the front cover. She angled the menu upward so she could read it in the light from the kitchen door. “Oh, no,” she breathed. “Listen to this: Atlantic Koi Carp Kebabs. Jade Lobster Jell-O. Stink Squid Sorbet … They HAVE stolen the fish.”

  “I knew it!” Jackson gritted his beak. “And soon they’ll have gobbled up the evidence.” He stumbled to his feet, his snow-clad sardine suit feeling heavier than one of his dad’s sea-cabbage cupcakes. “Come on, we’ve got to stop them. Let’s do this!”

  “Wait—what’s that noise?” Quigley held up his flippers to silence Jackson and Lily. “Sounds like a whole bunch of snowmobiles arriving at the front of the restaurant.”

  “Maybe the FBI is doing a raid!” Lily’s eyes sparkled with hope. “They told Mom they were putting all their best people on the case.”

  Jackson glanced at Quigley. If only Lily knew that THEY were the FBI’s best people. The FBI didn’t quite know it yet, but soon they would.

  “I’m going to look.” Lily set off across the parking lot, the two giant snow-covered sardines hopping after her. Around the side of the building they were blinded by camera flashes and headlights. A red carpet leading up to the front door of the restaurant had been laid out, and expensive snowmobiles were lined up at the end of it, dropping off their passengers.

  “Oh, my word!” Lily gasped. “That’s Justin Beaker.”

  “Who?” Quigley peered at the teenage penguin with a well-gelled crest who was posing on the red carpet.

  “A pop penguin,” Jackson muttered. He coughed and cleared his throat. “I only know because Finola likes him.”

  “There’s Ice-P!” Lily gasped. “He’s a rapper,” she added for Quigley’s benefit. “And oh, look, there’s Pen-zella. I LOVE her blub.”

  “What’s a blub?” Quigley scratched his crest.

  “Seriously?” Lily’s eyes widened. “A blub is an Ice-net posting where penguins write about their lives. Don’t you follow any celebrity blubbers?”

  “Look who else I see,” Jackson interrupted.

  Quigley groaned. “Hoff Rockface from school. What’s he doing here?”

  “I think that’s his dad with him,” Jackson said, craning his neck to check out the even larger version of Hoff Rockface who was climbing out of a shiny off-road snowmobile with sharp iceberg bumpers on the front. “I guess Coldfinger’s invited rich businesspeople as well as celebrities to the opening of her restaurant.”

  The Rockfaces owned the Windy Tail Pier and the funfair, and secretly Jackson suspected Mr. Rockface wasn’t entirely honest. Jackson didn’t know many penguins who had won much in his amusement arcade slot machines.

  Lily nudged Jackson. “Do you think those penguins know they’re going to eat my dad’s fish?”

  Jackson shrugged. “I don’t think famous celebrity penguins like Justin Beaker would want to eat endangered species. They probably think they’ve just been invited to an expensive new restaurant serving unusual food. But I’m not so sure about Hoff Rockface and his dad. They’re so mean, I bet they’d love to scarf rare fish!”

  “That’s terrible!” Lily cried. “We need to call the FBI right now. We’ve got to find a phone.”

  “But the FBI won’t listen to us,” Jackson said. “You saw what happened when we tried to tell them earlier. The FBI would need real proof before they would do anything.”

  “What about the menu?” Lily said. “That’s proof!”

  Quigley shook his head. “Not really. Coldfinger could just say the names were meant as a joke.”

  “He’s right,” Jackson said. “Lots of restaurants give their food funny names. Like Brain Freezers. The B
lue Whale Ice Whip isn’t actually made of squashed blue whales.”

  Quigley nodded. “I used to think it was. But then I did some DNA analysis and discovered Blue Whale whips are just made of marshmallow.”

  Lily glanced at Jackson in disbelief. “Um—okay…” She puffed out her cheeks. “So, what exactly are we going to do about the fish? We can’t just let those rich penguins eat them.”

  Jackson scratched his mangled crest. “Some-how, we’re going to have to get back inside the restaurant.”

  They stood in silence for a moment, watching guests walking up the red carpet.

  “Couldn’t we just pretend to be famous?” Lily asked.

  Jackson pointed to the flappy penguin with the pens around her neck. She was now standing at the front door with her two clipboards, checking off names. “I think there’s a guest list,” Jackson said.

  The snow had started falling heavily again. Jackson tried to shake it off his sardine suit, but it stuck where it fell. “Think we might have to lose these now,” he said, tugging at his outfit. “It’s so heavy with the snow stuck to it.”

  “And you do look kind of weird,” Lily said. “Sort of sparkly, like the ice sculptures at my Aunt Annie’s wedding last year.”

  “Huh?” Jackson stopped tugging at the suit. “Ice sculptures?” He glanced at Quigley, looking at the way the snow had stuck to his buddy’s outfit. And how the lights from the snowmobiles’ headlights made it glisten like ice. Lily was right—they did look a bit like ice sculptures. Jackson felt the pulse of a plan slide through his body. Could their suits get them carried right into the heart of the Shark’s Pit Restaurant? Jackson pushed his hood back up. “Quick!” he told Quigley. “Roll around in the snow and make sure your suit is completely covered. I think I’ve just thought of the BEST plan ever!”